


I'd rather die than see you hurt

by A_fighter_like_Eowyn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Caring Illya Kuryakin, Comfort, Declarations Of Love, Dorks in Love, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Heavy Angst, Hurt Napoleon Solo, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Illya Kuryakin Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Napoleon Solo Whump, Poor Illya Kuryakin, Protective Illya Kuryakin, True Love, gaby is a sweet friend, gaby is a sweet sister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-21
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-26 05:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30101349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_fighter_like_Eowyn/pseuds/A_fighter_like_Eowyn
Summary: What if Illya is so riled up by the knowledge that Napoleon has the backup computer disc with Dr. Teller's research stored in it that he decides to go to any extent to punish Napoleon and retrieve it for his own government? What if his anger drives him to commit a mistake he cannot live with? What if he hurts Napoleon in a manner that almost robs him of the one true love he has ever had?Almost? And will Napoleon, with his heart bathed in love for a certain Russian, be able to bear so much pain and hatred?
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	I'd rather die than see you hurt

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing for this fandom. I hope my readers who usually see me writing about Geralt / Jaskier for the Witcher fandom will also enjoy this work of mine :-)

"Professor Teller's research disc -- do you have it?", Oleg's rough, almost jarring voice crackled through the phone receiver.

"It went down with Victoria Vinciguerra and the boat", Illya replied without hesitation, and with full confidence. 

"Then why am I being told the American has it?", Oleg chewed out the words, "Again! Whoever holds that disc can control the world. Complete your mission."

Illya hadn't noticed when the hand clutching the receiver had begun to shake. His icy-blue eyes flitted rapidly as he grappled with the piece of information that had just been dropped like a bombshell upon him.

Oleg spoke again, this time his voice going dangerously low. Almost feral with the poorly veiled threat, "That is, unless you want to end up in Siberia like your father. He is an embarrassment. You don't want to wear that kind of shame. Is that clear?"

Illya's whole frame was shaking now. His jaws were clenched hard, and his expression had morphed into something almost inhumanly rigid with rage. 

"Am I making myself clear?", Oleg barked, not having been graced with a reply. "Get it done", he grit out, and the line went dead.

Illya placed the receiver back on the holder before leaning down to rest his hands on his knees. The fingers of his left hand jerked in an almost staccato rhythm against the fabric of his trousers. He knew he was about to lose it. And he did not give a damn.

Once he had scanned his room thoroughly to make sure there was nothing left to demolish in his fit of rage, the KGB agent, now breathing as hard as if he had run several miles, picked up his loaded gun, locked its safety catch in place, and shoved it into an inner compartment of his jacket. 

Time to avenge the betrayal he had been made a victim to.

*************************************************************************************************************

Napoleon tried to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat and a sudden rush of excitement made his stomach leap as he heard the three unhurried knocks on his hotel room door. 

Those three knocks he would know anywhere. Anytime. So characteristic of Illya. Unmistakably announcing his arrival.

And if of late, Illya's knocks, or his sudden appearance, had made Napoleon's heart soar for some unfathomable reason, then it was entirely his business and his alone. He had no intention of sitting down to analyze and delve deeper into these feelings -- these weird butterflies in his stomach -- and neither would he admit it to Illya till the moment he breathed his last.

Napoleon had to force his feet from skipping down the living room towards the door. Instead, he tried his best to maintain a semblance of calm decorum as he sauntered out to get the door. 

"Come in", he said, admitting Illya in and trying to not stare up at the taller man's handsome (if somewhat battered and bruised) face, "Just finishing up."

Illya looked stoic as ever -- like a marble statue -- and Napoleon inwardly smirked. Illya was adorable and soft and caring underneath, and Napoleon knew it. He knew Illya cared, and cared rather deeply. And the American had a sneaking suspicion that his Russian once-rival and once-arch-nemesis knew full well just how much Napoleon loved and cared for Illya.

In these few weeks, they had become ... friends. Napoleon still could not believe it at times, and his mind would often wander, trying to recall, to analyze, that exact moment when Illya transcended the barrier of hostility that had existed between the two of them and burrowed his way right into the CIA agent's heart. When had it happened? He could not tell, for the life of him. All he knew was that, they had been through hell together. They had got each other's back. They had stuck to each other through thick and thin, through the highs and lows and safety and perils of this Vinciguerra assignment.

All he knew was that, one moment, Illya had been his sworn enemy and someone he abhorred, and the next, Illya had become someone Napoleon did not quite know how to live without. How to fight without. How to ... _how to hope without._

To be very honest, Napoleon was currently weighed down by the knowledge of his imminent parting from the KGB agent. He knew what he felt for Illya would never culminate in anything concrete and long-lasting -- it would just bring heartache. He knew there was no version of the future where they could be ... together. He knew he would have to quash his stupid feelings for the man and let him go. Let him go and keep his memories locked away in his heart. Forever to cherish, yet perhaps never to meet the one true love of his life again.

It twisted his heart in unspeakable agony.

But Napoleon was determined to have a good time with Illya this one last time. This one last time, he wanted to make sure he made Illya laugh, and then commit the sight and sound of that laughter to memory. This one last time, he wanted to make Illya feel warm and comforted, and etch onto the canvas of his already breaking heart the rare, genuine smiles that flickered across the Russian's face from time to time and made his ice-blue eyes look several shades warmer. This one last time, he wanted to sit close to Illya, feel the warmth radiating off his body, look into those eyes, hear that thickly accented baritone, perhaps surreptitiously reach out and brush his fingers against Illya's own and then pretend it was an accident.

This one last time, Napoleon had resolved that his stupid emotions won't stop him from enjoying Illya's company to the fullest. And then, after Illya left, Napoleon would fall apart. Fall apart and perhaps never be whole again.

"Fix us a couple of drinks. I think we've earned them", he tossed over his shoulder as he walked back towards the adjoining bedroom, wanting to stack away the last of his clothing and other items in his suitcase so he would not have to worry about them for the next hour or so.

He would never confess out loud that he actually really wanted _Illya_ to fix them their drinks, because it would be _Illya_ pouring the drinks into his glass, it would be _Illya's_ fingers holding the glass out to him, and what he drank would be _Illya's_ choice.

And afterwards, once Illya left, if Napoleon -- tearful, heartbroken, devastated, _lonely_ Napoleon Solo -- picked up Illya Kuryakin's glass and pressed a tender kiss to the imprint of the Russian's lips on its edge -- well, then, no one would know. Or care.

"I guess it's ... business as usual now", Napoleon tried to sound nonchalant, but his voice threatened to crack as he busied himself in the bedroom, "Back to how things were? Politics being what they are ..."

He couldn't help it. He knew Illya didn't see him -- didn't _need_ him -- the way he needed Illya, but talking about parting ways -- he just had to know whether it affected Illya even a fraction of how it affected him. And so, he turned around to look at his Russian partner ...

_... to find Illya standing stock-still next to the cabinet with the alcohol bottles, his back ramrod-straight, his chiseled face looking like it had been carved out of stone, and his eyes, staring straight at Napoleon without blinking, hard as chips of flint._

Napoleon's heart sank. 

He knew in that instant that Illya had found out he had the backup computer disc containing Teller's research. It was quite beside the point that Napoleon had actually decided to give it away to Illya, not bothered anymore about this stupid race of arms between the United States and Russia.

But seeing that expression on Illya's face ...

_... the expression that the KGB agent kept reserved only for people he utterly loathed with his entire being ... people he would much rather obliterate from the face of this planet ..._

_Something broke inside Napoleon._

It was a miracle that the American could stifle a soft whimper of anguish. It was a miracle that he did not keen over. It was a miracle that while his heart screamed to Illya -- begged him to see just how much Napoleon had fallen for him, and just how much he yearned to be held and loved and comforted -- he stood rooted to the spot, a barely perceptible tremor beginning at the tips of his fingers.

_Please do not hate me, Illya.  
My fragile heart I have already held up to you. It's in your hands now. Please, please do not shatter it.  
I rarely let down my guard. I rarely leave myself so open and vulnerable. I rarely ever tear down the walls carefully built around my heart.  
You are the one person I have come to love with my everything, Illya.  
Please don't hate me so, Illya. I beg you ... please!_

Napoleon frantically searched Illya's hard, almost cruel, eyes for something ... for the merest hint of it. But he could not find it. 

He turned away before his expression crumpled. 

His feet felt impossibly heavy as he dragged himself back to his suitcase, and bending over, began arranging his clothes in a half-hearted manner.

Out slipped his revolver, sheathed in its holster.

Napoleon's hands trembled as he brushed his fingers over it.

He knew what Illya's mission was. Because that had been his mission too. He knew what Illya would do. What Illya was planning to do. And the only way to not let Illya succeed was to ...

And if Illya succeeded, then Napoleon would not see the sun rise again.

_What a tragic end to this beautiful, beautiful friendship! What a cruel twist of fate! How ruthlessly destiny was about to force Illya's hand, now that he was so convinced of Napoleon's betrayal ..._

Napoleon did his best to suppress the tremulousness of his voice as he asked, attempting to sound casual, his back still turned to his partner, "You ... feeling okay?"

He couldn't wait, so he turned around, and looked at Illya. His ocean-blue eyes wide and glistening, his eyebrows puckered together, his expression pained and vulnerable as he stared at the Russian agent, his breaths coming heavy. His eyes beseeched to Illya -- to see, _really see_ , and to understand. His whole body leaned forward slightly, as if reaching out to Illya.

_Hold me, please!  
Please, come closer! Please, read my eyes. See how much I love you, дорогой (darling) ... see how weak I am for you!  
Please, allow me some time to explain -- I was going to give the disc away to you anyway.  
Why are you looking at me with so much hatred, so much abhorrence, любовь моей жизни (love of my life)? Please, calm down! Please, reign in your temper! Your Napoleon is already crumbling ... please do not hate me so, Illya!_

Illya gave a small nod, then looked away. His features did not soften. He did not smile. His face hardened even more. His very posture screamed denial and rejection and utter disgust towards the other man in the room.

Napoleon's face crumpled. His wide, puppy-like eyes brimmed with tears even as he bit down on his lips to stop them from trembling like autumn leaves. His entire frame drooped slightly.

_Illya, возлюбленный (Beloved), do not shut me out like that, sweetheart!  
You are slicing at my poor heart, baby! Can't you see ... your Napoleon is falling apart, Illya!  
Come back! Come back to me!_

Illya resolutely stared away from Napoleon.

The American stifled a sob while turning back to his suitcase. His hands landed on the firearm tucked amidst his clothes again.

Illya finished pouring the drinks into the tumblers, then stepped closer to the bedroom door.

Napoleon's eyes darted towards the mirror that hung next to his bed, allowing him to see Illya's movements clearly. His hands, out of their own accord, pulled the revolver out of its holster.

Surprisingly enough (or perhaps, not so surprisingly, given that Napoleon had been a professional CIA agent and spy for a long time now), Napoleon found his voice, and he continued to make conversations without his voice cracking too obviously.

"So, what now? Mission accomplished? Head back to Russia?"

Illya pulled down the zip of his jacket. 

"Something like this. Yes."

This was the first time that Illya spoke since arriving at Napoleon's suite. And the American's heart raced a bit at the rumbling sound. 

"You?", Illya asked in return, his expression now darker and more sombre than Napoleon had ever witnessed, "New York?"

Illya's hand slid behind the open flap of his jacket.

Napoleon's heart howled in pain.

_Illya!  
Can you really ...?  
Illya, do I not mean anything to ...?  
Illya! Illya! Illya!_

A small, rational corner of his mind screamed at him, urged him to not throw his sense of self-preservation out the window. It urged him to grab his revolver. He was a faster shooter than Illya. He would be able to protect himself. All he had to do ...

_... all he had to do was whirl around and shoot ..._

NO!

_Take the gun! Turn around and take aim! Shoot! Shoot, you idiot! Or he will kill you! Now!  
Do it! You have moments to save yourself! Don't throw your life away, you fool! Save yourself now! Shoot! Shoot at the Russian! Or he will blow your brains off!_

NO! NO! _NO NO NO NO NO!_

Napoleon jerked free the hand that had automatically closed around the gun. 

Lightning fast, he picked up Illya's father's watch from among a pile of socks at the corner of his suitcase, whirled around and tossed it straight at the Russian.

"I almost forgot ... got something for --"

BOOM!

_The deafening roar of the pistol shattered a few windows.  
A few wisps of smoke escaped the mouth of the barrel.  
Illya's hand shook slightly where it clutched the other end of the gun.  
His other hand stayed closed tightly around the watch he had caught mid-air._

_A crimson patch bloomed on the left side of Napoleon's stomach. It started out small -- barely larger than a coin -- and then it spread. It spread further and further out -- tendrils of crimson reaching out on all sides -- growing wider and wider until the lower half of Napoleon's impeccable white shirt was bathed in it._

So much red! So deep! The iron tang of it hit Illya's nostrils. The brightness of it seared itself right into his benumbed mind.

_Napoleon swayed slightly where he stood.  
One hand automatically rose in front of him, as if beckoning to Illya.  
"Illya!", he whispered brokenly.  
And then, he was falling -- crumbling to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been snipped._

But he never hit the ground.

Instead, he landed on something soft. Someone's body.

Someone who had just rushed towards him, checking his fall. Someone who now had his arms around Napoleon and was holding him like he were a limp kitten. Someone on whose lap rested Napoleon's head.

"Napoleon! Napoleon!"

Someone was chanting his name. Someone whose face was right above his own. Someone whose warm breaths he could feel on his forehead, making his curly locks flutter slightly. Someone whose teardrops he could feel splashing onto his face. Someone whose rough, calloused hand cradled the back of his neck more gently than a mother would hold her newborn. Someone whose eyes were ice-blue yet so, so warm. 

_Someone he loved._

"Napoleon! Please! Oh god, please! Вернись (come back)! Вернись ко мне, моя любовь (come back to me, my love)! Please! What have I done! Oh god! What have I done!"

Someone was clutching him tightly to their chest. Someone was sobbing like a little child while clinging to his limp, broken, bleeding body and rocking him back and forth. Someone had their face buried in his hair. Someone's tears were soaking his shirtfront, mingling with the blood gushing out the bullet-wound in his stomach. Someone was shaking him gently, trying to keep him from closing his eyes and drifting off.

"No! Please! Please, stay with me! Please, Napoleon... Napoleon, open your eyes! Keep them open! Look at me! Look at me, дорогой!"

He was so, so tired. And the pain was making him so, so numb. All he wanted to do was rest a bit. He had earned it, hadn't he? After racing and running and stumbling and falling all through his life, he now wanted a bit of peace.

"Please! Please, мой милый возлюбленный (my sweet beloved)! Open your eyes! Come back to me, Napoleon!"

It was perhaps the urgency in that voice that finally managed to prevent Napoleon from letting go and sinking into a deep stupor. Sluggishly, he forced his heavy, drooping eyelids open. It took him a few seconds to find his focus.

"Illya ...", he breathed, a serene smile starting to form on his lips, "My dearest Peril! You're here. You're here now ... I have nothing to fear. No more fear."

"No! No! Napoleon! малишка (baby), please stay with me! I'm going to get help! You'll be fine ... you'll be okay!"

"I'm already fine, Illya!", Napoleon slurred a bit but the smile remained on his face, and his features smoothed over as if he was preparing to go to sleep, "Wherever it is I go now, I know you loved me. I know you _love_ me. And you are with me, now. I fear this journey no more, Illya, дорогой (darling)..."

"NO! NO! Don't talk like that!", Illya howled in pain.

Napoleon discerned the sound of the door to his hotel suite bursting open, and the thud of footsteps racing towards them.

"NAPOLEON!", Gaby's panicked shout rang out, and in the next second, the American felt another warm body press to his other side, and someone clasped the blood-slick hand that covered the wound in his stomach in their own tiny one.

Gaby's tearful face came into focus.

"Gaby, sweetheart", Napoleon smiled, though tears were now starting to cloud his vision, "Sweet friend, little sister ..."

"No! Please, no!", Gaby sobbed.

"Gaby, would you ...", Napoleon choked a bit, and then coughed up something that tasted like iron, and his two dearest friends cried out in agony.

"Gaby, please ...", Illya begged brokenly, "Please ... help ... help ..."

"Ambulance on its way", Waverly's disembodied voice announced from somewhere above the three of them.

Napoleon coughed up more blood, but once his throat was slightly clear, he turned back to Gaby with a sense of urgency.

"Gaby, look after him."

Gaby sobbed harder than ever, her tear-streaked face pressed to Napoleon's blood-stained knuckles as she clutched his hand as if she absolutely refused to let him go.

"Please, Gaby", Napoleon coughed a few more times, and more blood poured forth, "Don't let him get in trouble. Promise me, Gaby!"

The ground seemed to vibrate with the thud of more footsteps thundering down the hallway outside his suite. Napoleon's vision was dimming now, and everything was starting to become hazy, go out of focus ...

"Illya, look after our sister. Protect her", he nearly managed to order, feeble though his voice was.

Illya's eyes came into focus one last time. Fresh tears welled up there. Napoleon struggled to raise his hand, to wipe away at those offending tears that dared to obscure the most beautiful, ice-blue eyes he had ever seen ...

Then everything went dark.

****************************************************************************************************

Illya came awake with a start.

His back and side ached from where he had slumped against the bed at an awkward angle -- his upper body lay curled on the bed while his lower half still sat angled on the hard chair he had pulled up next to the bed.

He could still hear the steady beep of the monitor measuring heartrate of the patient. He could see the steady drip of the saline that hung from the bedpost. He could still feel the pulse -- somewhat weak but holding steady -- underneath his own skin, where his fingers remained curled gently but firmly around the wrist of another, slightly smaller hand. He could feel the warmth radiating off that hand and the body that lay next to his own.

His eyes darted to the man that lay next to him, prone and recovering on the hospital bed, hooked up to a saline and a million monitors, sporting a wide bandage across his bare midsection.

_Deep-ocean-blue eyes stared right back at him._

"Napoleon ...", the name came out like a prayer.

"Illya ...", it was barely a whisper that fell off Napoleon's lips.

Illya did not hesitate.

_Surging forward, he gently but assertively pressed his lips upon Napoleon's._

The American moaned weakly, eyes falling closed.

The kiss was light and short, but it held all the promise of prolonged, passionate kisses to come.

"Can you forgive me, свет моей жизни (light of my life)?", Illya asked, his eyes tearing up again, after he broke apart.

Napoleon's answering smile was dazzling. Slowly, he reached up to cradle Illya's face in his hand (the one not hooked to the saline). 

"If only I knew I could so easily coax out such endearments from this grumpy Russian agent of mine by getting almost fatally wounded, boy, would I have tried it sooner", he joked.

Illya's face turned hard.

"Cowboy!", he growled, the warning clear in his voice.

Napoleon almost melted.

"This cowboy is all yours from this moment onward, Agent Kuryakin!"


End file.
